What Price Paradise (6 page)

“Do you have a copy of your birth certificate? We’ll need it for the marriage license.”

Abby turned back to the stove and gave the contents of the pot a quick stir. “Yes. I had to have it for…” She halted and her face turned red.

Tate looked at her in curiosity. “For what?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “It’s upstairs with the rest of my things.”

He pulled his hands from his pockets. “Well, if you don’t need any help, I guess I’ll go work on the tractor until supper’s ready. You can stick your head outside and yell. I’ll be in that shed next to the barn.”

“Okay.”

Just as he started by her, she turned and reached for a spoon. Their gazes met and Tate stopped. “I know you’re nervous right now and everything seems strange. It does to me too. But it will get better, Abby. I promise.”

Mutely, she nodded and he turned and walked out the door.

* * * * *

Abby stepped out onto the back porch and started down the stairs when the dog appeared around the corner of the house. She froze. He was even bigger and meaner looking in the daylight than he’d been in the dark. His coat was shaggy, a mottled brown and black.

He stopped and stared at her for a second, then came closer, his gait stiff-legged, his tail unmoving. She held her breath while he circled her, sniffing her legs, not letting it out until his tail began a gentle waving.

“Nice dog?” At her words, the tail movement increased and she patted him on the head. Maybe he wouldn’t rip her leg off after all. Trying her best to ignore him, she started hesitantly for the shed. The dog fell in behind her.

Both doors were open on the metal building, but the heat inside was oppressive. The roar from the engine of the monstrous tractor was deafening in the enclosed space and diesel fumes filled the air.

She paused in the door, looking for Tate. It didn’t take her long to find him. He had the side panel of the tractor open and was leaning over the motor, tinkering with something. At some point, he’d pulled his shirt off and it was lying draped over a huge tire. A thin sheen of sweat coated the bronzed skin of his back, glistening with each flex of muscle as he moved.

Abby swallowed hard, and suppressed the urge to run her hands over that back. She could still remember what it had felt like that first time, vividly. For a while, the ache of loneliness had eased a little. She’d felt connected to someone for once in her life, even if it hadn’t lasted long.

“Tate?” She couldn’t hear her own voice over the noise and he didn’t even look up. She moved closer and tentatively put her hand on his arm, jerking it back hurriedly when he straightened abruptly, banging his head on the folded-back metal of the engine cover.

His mouth moved as he faced her, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. He shook his head, then reached back inside the motor. The noise died, leaving her ears ringing in the sudden silence.

“Sorry. I guess I didn’t hear you yell.”

There was grease on his hands and he pulled an orange shop towel out of his back pocket and wiped them off. But that wasn’t what caught Abby’s attention. His chest was covered in a light sprinkling of black hair that tapered into a vee where it disappeared into the top of his jeans.

Suddenly realizing she was staring, Abby lifted her gaze. He was watching her and the heat rushed to her face in a solid wave of embarrassment. “Supper’s ready,” she blurted.

He nodded. “I need to wash up first. Grab my shirt, okay?” He held his hands up to show her the grease, then went through a side door she hadn’t noticed.

Was she supposed to follow him? Apparently. Holding the shirt by the collar, she stepped through the door. There was a spigot on the side of the building, the water spilling into a tin tub below it. Above it, a wooden board perched on several nails, holding more shop towels, soap and a broken piece of mirror.

Tate plunged his arms into the water, then picked up the soap and started scrubbing while Abby watched, fascinated. She’d never seen a man built like he was before. The patrons of Delly’s usually sported pot bellies that stretched the buttons on their shirts to near bursting. The ones that didn’t were so skinny a light breeze could blow them away.

There was nothing skinny about Tate. His stomach looked like a washboard. Everything about him seemed larger than life.

Something poked her on the thigh and she tore her attention from Tate to look down. The dog was back, looking up at her expectantly.

“I think he likes you.”

“Really?” She glanced at Tate. “How can you tell?”

“He’s usually pretty standoffish with people he doesn’t know.”

She patted the animal on the head again, this time with more assurance. “What’s his name?”

“Don’t guess he has one. We just call him Dog.” He rinsed the soap from his arms and reached for a towel.

“Does he ever come in the house?”

Tate dropped the cloth into a bucket that sat next to the tub and took his shirt from Abby, pulling it on, but not bothering to button it. “No. He’s too dirty.”

He’d only taken two steps toward the house when he stopped and put one hand on Abby’s shoulder. “Look.”

The touch sent heat shimmering through her and set her stomach in motion again, but obediently she followed his pointing finger.

At first, the only thing she saw was what appeared to be a wad of mud stuck up under the eaves of the shed. Then there was a flurry of motion and three tiny heads popped from a hole in the side, mouths open wide. A slender bird with sharply pointed wings poked something into one of the mouths before swooping off again, feathers flashing in the sun.

“Oh, she’s beautiful,” Abby breathed.

Tate was close enough that she could actually feel him laugh. “That wasn’t a she. It was the male. They’re barn swallows. Every spring they show up and use the same nest.”

“Did something happen to the mother?”

“No. She’ll be along in a minute. Both parents raise the young.” He dropped his hand. “Let’s go eat. I’m starved.”

Abby studied his back as she followed him the rest of the way to the house. Why had he shown her the birds? Was there supposed to be a message in there somewhere? If so, she wasn’t sure she’d gotten it. Surely he hadn’t meant he was going to help her raise the baby. A small sigh escaped her as they went up the steps. She had almost nine months to worry about it and there wasn’t much she could do now, anyway. She’d handle it when it was time, one way or the other.

Tate went right to the table and sat down, helping himself to the spaghetti, salad and garlic bread. “Looks good. Smells good too.”

“Thanks.” She took the chair across from him and filled her own plate. “I made some fried apple pies for desert. I hope that was okay.”

“Better than okay.” He spoke around a full mouth. “You’ll have Buddy’s undying gratitude. Where did you learn to cook?”

Abby gave a small shrug. “I did all the cooking before my mother died. We couldn’t afford any of that ready-to-eat stuff.”

“When did she die?”

“A little over a year ago. She had cancer.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. She was in a lot of pain for a long time. I guess dying was a relief for her.”

“And you’ve been working at Delly’s since then.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. “Yes.”

“Wasn’t there some kind of help you could have gotten from the state?”

Abby bristled. “I don’t take charity. When my mother was hospitalized, I saw the way doctors, nurses and hospital officials treated her. Like she was a lower form of life because she was on state aid. They took away her humanity, humiliated her and withheld the pain medication she needed so desperately until the last minute. It caused her needless suffering. No one will ever do that to me. I’ll starve first.”

Silence fell as they kept eating and Abby’s nervousness increased. Was this how it was going to be every time they were alone together? Desperately, she searched for something else to talk about.

“What do you use the tractor for?”

Tate looked up. “Everything. Breaking, disking, cultivation, harvesting, pulling wagons. We couldn’t survive without it.”

“I thought ranchers just raised cows and horses.”

“We do that too. But with the drought, we’ve had to sell off more cows than I’d like. That means more cash crops than we normally plant and a lot more irrigation.”

“Cash crops?”

He took another bite and nodded. “Yeah. Things that we can sell, like cotton and soybeans. Most years we just plant Milo, corn, sorghum, and hay grass. Feed for the animals. We’ve got a couple of silos, so we can store our own grain. And sometimes, if the weather’s good, we even have enough to sell to other ranchers.”

It was the longest speech she’d ever heard him make and she was fascinated by the sound of his voice. It was obvious he loved what he did. “I haven’t seen any cows at all.”

“That’s because they’re all out on the range. We’ll be bringing them in later in the year for branding and dipping. Probably wait until around September to start that. Give all the cows time to drop their calves, and give me a chance to get the crops taken care of first.”

“You do all that by yourself?”

“Until Buddy gets out of school. Then he helps. And during round-up all the neighbors pitch in. Saves us all from hiring extra hands when we swap out the work like that.”

“What time do you get up in the mornings?”

“On the weekdays, by six. Weekends are different. Tomorrow’s Sunday, so I’ll be probably be gone a couple of hours earlier.”

“Gone?” Abby paused. “Where are you going?”

“Fishing. If I’m lucky we’ll have fresh trout for supper tomorrow night. That’s one thing I
can
cook.”

“You don’t have to,” she hastily assured him. “I can do it.”

“Nope. Family tradition. If you catch them, you have to clean ‘em and cook ‘em.” He took the last bite and blinked as Abby whisked the plate out from under him and carried it to the sink along with her own, returning with a platter piled high with fried pies. She seemed agitated and it suddenly occurred to him why.

Casually, he picked up a pie and took a bite, pausing to chew thoughtfully. “Tell you what. We’ll split the job. I’ll cook the fish and you can fix the stuff to go with it.”

“What kind of stuff?”

At least she appeared calmer now. “The usual. French fries, cole slaw, hushpuppies.”

“Hushpuppies?”

“Can you make corn bread?” He took a bigger bite of the pie, and licked his lips. Damn, it was good.

She nodded.

“That’s the hard part. When it’s mixed, just chop up an onion and put it in the batter. Then you drop spoonfuls into the grease.” He popped the last bite of pie into his mouth.

“Okay.”

It was the first time she’d ever smiled at him and it transformed her. Had he actually thought she was merely pretty? She was beautiful. When she smiled, two dimples appeared on her cheeks and her entire face lit up. Tate cleared his throat and wrenched his gaze away from her.

“Well, I’ve got some paperwork to do. I’ll be in the office if you need me.” Even before he got out the kitchen door he could hear her running water to wash dishes. If he didn’t keep an eye on her, she was going to work herself to death.

Tate pulled his clothes on quietly, then slipped from his room, carrying his boots in one hand. Daylight was still several hours away, but he didn’t mind. Early mornings, before the world started stirring, were his favorite time. And he’d spent Sunday mornings fishing for so many years now that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to break the habit even if he wanted to.

He dropped his boots in the kitchen, ready to make a pot of coffee to take with him, then stopped. There was already a full pot simmering under the coffeemaker. Next to it was a plate containing four cellophane-wrapped biscuits. Homemade ones, with slices of bacon in the middle.

When the hell had she made them? He picked one up in puzzlement. It was still warm. And there wasn’t a single dirty dish in sight. In fact, the kitchen was spotless. More so than at any time since his mother had died. Abby must have stayed up most of the night working. It couldn’t be good for her or the baby.

Putting the biscuit down, he turned and climbed back up the stairs, stopping at Abby’s room and knocking softly. When there was no answer he pushed the door open and moved quietly to the side of the bed. She was sound asleep, the setting moon casting silvery shadows over her. She had kicked the blankets to the foot of the bed and was curled up on her side, one knee pulled tightly into her chest, the other leg stretched out straight.

Her dark hair was spread partially on the pillow and partially tangled over her face, but he could still see the long lashes that brushed her cheeks, and the lightly curled fist next to her head. Her left hand lay relaxed, palm up on the sheets. Such a small, delicate hand. For that matter, all of her looked tiny in the big bed. She barely took up a quarter of the space. It made her look young, more like twelve than…what?

All at once it occurred to him that he didn’t know how old she was, that he really didn’t know anything about her at all. Except that she was carrying his baby. A fierce wave of emotion swept over him, staggering in its intensity. It took him a moment to identify it. Why was he suddenly feeling so damn protective? Because she was pregnant, or because she looked so helpless? Maybe it was a little of both.